


Death

by Jess_S



Series: Felicitas [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Highlander - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Felicitas-verse - Freeform, Gen, references to death, violence mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 02:12:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4082719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jess_S/pseuds/Jess_S
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because every Immortal has their beginnings...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death

**Author's Note:**

> REVISED: 9/18/2015. Just over 1,000 words added.

**Felicitas** **by Jess S**.

 ** _Prologue: Death_**.

_ Felicitas' P.O.V. _

_780 B.C. - KART-HADASHT._

                                            

Felicitas froze as the violent sensation shuddered through her head and down her spine, looking around wildly even as she called out, "Guards!"

 

"Your youth may make this sound strange," an unfamiliar voice told her, and then a man she'd never seen before stepped out from the shadows across the room. "But mortal men aren't the best shields. Not against our kind."

 

Felicitas spun away to flee back through the door she'd just entered through and down the hall until she found the nearest guards. She _should_ hear them already, and the fact that she didn't hear pounding footsteps and clanging armor heralding their arrival scared her almost as much as this stranger.

 

This warrior that likely wanted to kill her—like the others. Who'd clearly been waiting for her in her chambers, which should be among the safest, most secure places in the entire city.

 

"No, no," the stranger chided her, his longer strides crossing the room in the time it took her to flee the few steps back to the entrance. He caught her arm just as she'd managed to yank one door open, and tugged her back inside."Don't run, little one. I'm not going to hurt you." He let her yank her arm away and stumble back from him while he closed the doors, then turned back to her.

 

Felicitas took another step back, holding the wrist he'd released even though his grip hadn't been hard enough to hurt her. She was sure the fright she was feeling was all over her face as she backed away a little more. With everything that'd happened to her, though, all of her lessons on proper bearing and behavior couldn't quite tamper down the terror.

 

The man just stood there, studying her for a long moment.

 

While Felicitas' eyes darted between him in the balcony. She'd survived the agony of flames. She'd survived being run through. Even come away from both unscarred. Would jumping from her own balcony, one of the highest in the city, offer the same results?

 

The frightening stranger sighed. "You really are _new_ , aren't you?"

 

Felicitas blinked, pausing as she realized, only as the wash of terror invoked by that horrible headache's forewarning and the absence of safety in her sanctuary, that he wasn't attacking her.

 

Yes, he wasn't letting her leave, and he was armed. He had two swords on his back. One of the iron gladius that the Romans favored. The other was an older Greek xiphos. Either one would do her harm if they were drawn: there was no other way out of this no longer safe sanctum, except for the balcony over the cliffs and sea. Leaping for Poseidon's realm might be her only escape—she certainly couldn't fight him. The one time she'd tried to pick up the heavier of the blades she'd had a very hard time even holding it aloft, and those two swords probably weren't his only weapons anyway.

 

...But his hands weren't reaching for those weapons. Or her.

 

The Carthaginian queen would never be able to say what it was that made her trust him. Whether it was the weariness in his voice or the unexpected gentleness of his grip as he'd forced her to stay.

 

Maybe it was just the fact that he was talking to her. Only one of the seven men that'd tried to kill her since Kart-Hadasht was nearly sacked and she somehow survived had really done that. He was the third one, and he'd only told her who he was before he'd tried to attack her, killing three of the royal guards before her husband had cut him down. The other six had just come running at her with weapons drawn and her death in their eyes. Only the first one had taken her completely by surprise because their approach was always heralded by the same strange headache she'd just felt. Not that knowing they were coming made it any less terrifying.

 

"Wha-What?" the stuttered word left her lips tinged with all the scared confusion her life of the last four years deserved.

 

"My name is Methos," was how he answered, a small smile pulling his face a little out of the weary mask that made him look more like an old man than the warrior he was. "And you, I believe, are Felicitas, queen of this fine city?"

 

"I... I am." Felicitas nodded confirmation, trying to draw on all the bravery her mother had raised her to possess to act like the ruling sovereign she was.

 

Of course, Queen Dido would always be a nearly impossible example to follow, even if Felicitas had found herself thinking the flames were a better end than what awaited her at the hands of the raiders that'd attacked Kart-Hadasht nearly a decade after her mother had sacrificed herself on a pyre for their city. But she would always endeavor to try.

 

"Why are you here? What do you want?" Felicitas forced herself to say, not wanting to keep thinking about her mother—down that line of thought, especially involving fire and death, their lay only pain—and knowing that that answer was one she really needed.

 

It seemed almost too much to hope for that this might be a man that could tell her why so many strangers wanted her dead. But she'd sensed his presence just like she had the others, and yet he hadn't drawn the blades he wore across his back. Yet.

 

"Hum," Methos chuckled, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the door he'd just barred her from exiting. "As I've come to realize my wish that mankind might forget how they forged blades, or warfare, I generally have to settle with just being happy for the moments that no one wants my head."

 

"...Your-Your head?" Felicitas asked hesitantly, even though she'd made the connection previously.

 

All of the men that'd tried to kill her had seemed like gods: rising again and again from injuries that should've slowed—or even slain—them, until they lost their heads.

 

It'd been a lucky move, the first time, when her husband had decapitated the man that'd broken into their bedchamber in the middle of the night, intent on her death. The thunderstorm that his death had unleashed had been terrifying. Like all of Zeus's wrath was exploding within their bedroom for a few brief moments. But it hadn't harmed them. And it was also reminiscent of the little arcs of lightning that'd dance across her skin whenever she hurt herself—healing her instantly—ever since that night.

 

After that, they'd known how to take the other men down, but Eligius had always hesitated. Only because the lightning storm that their death unleashed always attacked her. She was left unharmed by anything other than her terror and a headache as she pondered over who the man that'd just died in front of her had been.

 

None of the men had been a match for her husband; the mighty warrior-prince she'd specifically wed so that her people would have a great defender. A man she'd always respected, and even become fond of once she'd managed to master his language so that they could speak to one another.

 

And Eligius loved her. He said he had from the moment he met her, even if he'd come to the 'new' Phoenician city for a kingship, after meeting her he'd been willing to simply be the Queen's husband when the people of Kart-Hadasht had insisted Dido's daughter remain their ruler. That was why he fought for her with every fiber of his being. He always had.

 

They'd tried talking, too. With the men that wanted her dead. At least the ones that Eligius had so far outmatched in skill that he was willing to let them live for a short time if it meant the answers they needed. But the only thing any of the men would pause to say to her, the thing that every one had said was: 'There can be only one.' The words were clearly for her; not her husband or their guards, all of whom were summarily ignored, as if they weren't worth looking at as anything other than obstacles. One had accused her of cheating, of cowardice, but wouldn't explain either.

 

Looking at the warrior that stood so confidently, so wearily in front of her now, though, Felicitas was struck by the notion that this might not be a man that Eligius could beat. She'd always been good at reading people, seeing traits and resemblances that fit together like a puzzle in her mind to give her a pretty good idea of who—and what—even a stranger was.

 

And this man... he was a warrior in every sense of the word. He stood with the confidence of one who was long accustom to war. Tired of it, perhaps, but not ready to lay down and die yet either.

 

He looked young. Physically. With the perfect musculature of a man at his prime who'd been training and fighting all his life. No permanent folds in his skin from laughs or frowns or scowls. No gray or silver slivers in his dark mane. At first glance, she'd presume him younger than her husband.

 

He wasn't though. No.

 

The weariness in his face and shoulders reminded her of the old warriors that proudly directed the new ones through training routines they'd done thousands of times before.

 

His eyes were the oddest part. Not just because that weary wisdom was there, too. But the odd mix behind that wariness. Sadness and hope at war in eyes the same color as her own.

 

"You've figured out that much, at least, the importance of our heads staying attached." Methos' voice was gently sympathetic as he smirked at her. "Or your defender has. The tales of demigods dying in their attempts on your life, whilst Zeus raged on your behalf, can't mean anything else."

 

Felicitas shook her head as she finally let the question out, "Why do they want to kill _me?_ I-I haven't done—We're not even at war with—"

 

"It isn't about anything you've done, personally or as a Queen of the Phoenician Empires," he cut her off, that smirk morphing into a sympathetic smile. "It's about power. Or purpose, I suppose."

 

Felicitas stared at him for a long moment, utterly perplexed, " _Wha-What?_ " the word sounded so small as it stuttered out of her mouth again that she scarcely recognized her own voice.

 

Methos sighed again, then indicated the lounging area by the balcony. "This conversation may take a while."

 

And it did.

 

Her husband returning to their rooms went about how she'd expected. Eligius had attacked the stranger he found with her because the absence of any of the royals guards that were supposed to be guarding their primary residence having panicked the warrior long before he'd burst through the door expecting to find her already dead again. Methos had disarmed him—taking his sword and depositing him on the vacant lounge—with every bit of the daunting ease she'd half-expected. But that was barely a footnote in the tales her mentor-to-be told long into the night.

 

Felicitas was immortal. An Immortal.

 

She'd never age.

 

Never die.

 

Unless someone cut off her head, and other Immortals would try. Because of 'The Game'—a bizarre and horrible purpose some Immortals had chosen to live by, even embrace, sometime in the last millennium.

 

A millennium. A thousand years. A time-span Methos spoke of flippantly because he was a quarter of the way through his _third_.

 

And for half that mind-boggling lifetime, he'd been known by most as 'Death.' Death of the Four Horsemen.

 

"Why should we trust you?" Eligius had asked.

 

While Felicitas wondered, "Why help me?"

 

The ancient man smirked and replied in the same tongue. Not Phoenician. He'd switched to her husband's language with no more difficulty than he'd disarmed the mortal warrior after his arrival. "Call it my try at redemption," he answered her first, then raised an eyebrow for her husband. "What choice do you have?"

 

Felicitas would always consider herself fortunate for fate bringing this myth to her as a mentor.

 

Even though she'd resisted at first, unwilling to leave her home, her people, even though a part of her understood that she had to. Understood that there'd come a time when the people of Kart-Hadasht would fear their unaging queen if she stayed too long.

 

Even five years later, when Eligius was murdered by another Immortal, whom Methos refused to help her hunt down because he'd 'made her what she was.' Felicitas couldn't hold his odd honor against him. Not that it had been easy to be forgiving as she planned the funerals.

 

The children first. The three she'd called her own and made her heirs were actually Eligius' nephews and niece. His older sister had wed a Phoenician man who'd fled from Tyre with Dido, who'd always counted him as one of her most trusted advisors. He had served Dido and Felicitas both very well, till he fell in the same battle that made Felicitas an Immortal. His wife, Eligius's sister, had been taken by childbirth some years before; giving birth to the twins, her second son and only daughter. It had been only right to take them in. And when no children were born to Felicitas herself, it'd been only a little difficult to convince her people to accept them as her heirs.

 

Only the eldest, Anaruz, survived that day. And only because he stopped on the way back from his own training to watch her slowly improving attempts at swordwork under Methos tutelage. So he'd arrived late for supper alongside Felicitas and Methos. Where they'd found Eligius, Izebboudgen and Didas dying or dead. All the food tasters, like the children, were already dead by then. Only Eligius was still drawing gasping, painful breaths for those few moments he'd held on to say farewell.

 

No. Forgiveness would never come for the witch who'd murdered them. Even for Methos it hadn't come easily. It _was_ , however, necessary; she'd needed his friendship then more than ever. And he wasn't the one that'd poisoned her family then fled into the night.

 

Instead, the poison Methos mixed was at her request. For the final funeral. Eligius' funeral... and her own.

 

The whispers had already started then, without her great protector there to quell them. How natural, how trustworthy, was her godliness when it led to her husband—the mightiest of warriors—die in so despicable a way? Such rumors would only grow the longer she lingered—their spread spurned on by her rivals and enemies alike—ultimately hurting her son's reign.

 

She had to step down as queen, leaving her crown to her only remaining child, who was then old enough to be called a man, at least in those ancient times. The throne, a carefully selected council to guide him, and the mythos that her very public sacrifice would rekindle—that of a glorious queen selflessly dying for her people and her love—was all Felicitas could leave Anaruz.

 

He would've preferred she stayed. Perhaps forever. A part of her would've preferred that, too. But more Immortals would come as word of her warrior husband's demise made them think they could seek her head.

 

So she drank the poison that'd make her sleep even while her flesh burnt. Then she set Eligius' funeral pyre alight and, as the whole city watched, laid down next to him to die. A fitting end for the daughter of Dido.

 

Methos would remove her scorched corpse from the ashes before the many mourners could see her come back from the dead. Again.

 

**_End of Death._ **

**Originally posted on 6/5/2015.**

**REVISED: 9/18/2015.**

* * *

_...NEXT:_ **Trust.**

_Because every relationship has to start somewhere..._

**Author's Note:**

> Only a few changes in this one. The biggest one is the city's name. It's still Carthage, but that's what we call it in English, rooted in the Latin name: 'Carthago,' which was what the Romans called it. That wouldn't be what the ruler of the Phoenician city would know it as, not back then. She'll still call it Carthage going forward, at least some times, because for most of the series she'll be in modern times, speaking English. It makes sense to me that if she changes her names for each lifetime, as Methos taught her, and learns the languages of others along the way (that's mostly what Methos did, so that's what she'd do, too), that she'd use the names in that language also. So, per further research: "The city (in modern-day Tunisia, North Africa) was originally known as Kart-Hadasht (new city) to distinguish it from the older Phoenician city of Utica nearby. The Greeks called it Karchedon, and the Romans turned this name into Carthago..." (Source credit to: Joshua J. Mark, "Carthage," Ancient History Encyclopedia, last modified April 28, 2011, http://www.ancient.eu/carthage/.)  
> Thanks to that same source, I do know that factually my timelines a bit screwed up, but I don't want to change it, so I'm claiming writers license there.  
> I tend to do a lot of research for my writing, and when I find what I consider mistakes too big to ignore, I have to change them. Like I said, it's not a big thing here, but it's thematic enough to matter to me. Ergo, the biggest change. Other than a little more background being added on.  
> The rest was just a few added/altered lines to make it flow better and sound a little more like some of the later stories. Let me know what you think! And if I missed anything in my revising please, please, please let me know!  
> Thanks in advance! :-)  
> ~ Jess S  
> P.S: A thousand thanks to everyone has commented: Lademonessa, AerynSun75, sparkysmomma09, & Faith-Kiamn.  
> And thanks to everyone who has kudo'd.  
> Hope you like the rest of the series, too! :-D

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Guardian Angel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6489232) by [Lexi_the_dragon_muse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexi_the_dragon_muse/pseuds/Lexi_the_dragon_muse)




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